by Daniel Emmerson, Poland
photo by Haley Petersen

Today I took part in a truly remarkable tradition that brought together local Polish communities and put smiles on the faces of all who attended. It was a gathering of both social spirit and local collaboration to a most exciting and humble degree. I am one of the only few English people to have visited the area of Dzialoszice recently, and so today I was invited to interview one of the senior language teachers of the region at the annual event and take part in the local festivities.

The harvest festival is one of the biggest events of the year in the eyes of the farming community; there are hay sculpting competitions, prizes for the tastiest baked goods, awards for the ripest fruit and vegetables and a finale of dancing and singing performances by children from the surrounding villages.

Dzialoszice is a small town about sixty-five kilometres north east of Krakow, Poland. It could be compared to many small villages in England in that there are a few small shops, an old church and a small green in the centre with several benches about the place. Aside from the occasional local event, not much happens in this part of Poland, which is perhaps why Dzialoszice does not attract many tourists. I arrived at the harvest with a few friends and their parents, who were greeted by three monks and priest; each of whom carried a rather large loaf of bread, carved and crafted into the Stations of the Cross. Although each scene was comprised of yeast, it harboured distinct gruesome detail causing me to feel no envy towards man who had to tuck into that for his supper.

A series of sharp trumpet blasts announced the arrival of a battalion of elderly gentlemen in traditional costume. The group numbered around fifty men in total and they proceeded to lead the way to the main square, where a small stage had been assembled next to various tents and marquees. The harvest was declared open and I was invited to inspect the various attractions.

The bakery stalls fronted freshly baked bread and cakes that were served in wicker baskets by pretty young girls. The vegetable tables where remarkably laid out and manned by large burly Chłopy1 in aprons. I made my way to one of the smaller cake stalls where an enthusiastic village girl talked me through the selections of sponge cake. She invited me to sample a few generously sized portions before I made my decision as to which of the cakes I should purchase. I was more than happy to comply and when I finally made up my mind I was rewarded by a peck on the cheek and a knapsack of fresh cake, all for the price of about fifty pence. I made my way over to a ‘fruit and veg’ table where a toothless beaming fellow clasped my hand firmly and invited me to give his apples a squeeze. I ended up buying three juicy ‘kosztela’ apples and thanking the salesman for his assistance. I asked him where he was from and how he thought the festival was going so far. He said he was from Miechow, a town not so far away and that the harvest is always a treat, “as long as it does not rain like it does in England” he added with a gummy grin. I have been learning Polish for a while now but my accent is still distinguishable to the locals. He said that his stall has won the prize for best apples and potatoes for the last five years and he would be “very fucking surprised” if he didn’t win again this year. He gave a giant guffaw before moving on to his next customer and casting me a shrewd wink as he did so.

I have been living in Poland for a few weeks, but I have still not become fully adjusted to the intertwining of formal and informal language that is often used by people outside of the main cities like Krakow, Warsaw and Łódź. It is common practice for younger people to refer to their seniors as ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’. I made a conscious effort to maintain this formal form of dialogue with the man who sold me my apples, but he still persisted in swearing at me. A little bemused and slightly offended, I continued to navigate my way around the rest of the event.

I soon came across an alcohol tent swarming with middle-aged men. Grubby gents threw their empty cups and dead cigarettes on the ground while clambering over each amongst a haze of stale smoke and the stench of spilled beer. I made my way past the alcohol tent, a bouncy castle, trampoline and carousel swing to what seemed to be the most popular at the harvest; the tractor stall. Husky men and women alike horded around tractors of all shapes and sizes; revving the engines, climbing on top of the motors and even getting under them. I know nothing about tractors and so I was unable to judge the most sustainable or the most efficient model when I was asked my opinion.

After trotting back to the main market, I was introduced to Mr Stanislaw Nowak, a local foreign language teacher. Mr Nowak gripped my hand tight and greeted me. He looked warn out but confident and had a face that looked to be stretched, so much so that one of his eye sockets seemed to be trying to escape half way down his face. “What is your name young man?” he asked in a deep and aspiring voice “and what do you think of Dzialoszice?”. I told him how the harvest seemed very well organised and that I was particularly intrigued by the confidence and abruptness of the local farmers. He chuckled slightly before asking me what I knew about his work. It suddenly struck me that we were speaking in Polish and I had supposed that he was an English teacher, when I told him this he laughed manically “no” he said, “I am a retired language teacher, I learn French and Italian”. He seemed like a fascinating gentleman and I wanted to know more about him. I asked Mr Nowak how he came into contact with foreign languages, particularly when living in such a small town. He proceeded to dazzle me for the next thirty minutes by telling me about an interesting theory of his. He claimed that the best way to learn a language was by learning several at a time, starting out with everyday words in a language like French and then translating them into Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. This seemed like a bizarre way to learn, and when I told Mr Nowak that one language at a time was enough for me, he laughed. “Just like everybody else” he said, “and this is why there is so much war”. Without warning he reached across me and grabbed a dainty old lady in a piny. “This is one of my former French students” he remarked, clasping her firmly by the arm. The lady in question appeared most frightened and looked as though she might try and flee the scene. I asked the teacher and his former student to pose together for a photograph. Mr Nowak thanked me for taking the time to speak to him; he shook my hand and made a strange gesture with his good eye. I winced uncontrollably before I could thank him for his time. He vanished in the direction of the beer tent.

Several more trumpets sounded and I was ushered towards the centre stage for a prize giving ceremony. First prize was a large bottle of fruit liquor, which was elegantly displayed by a member of the town council before other prizes were awarded. I hurriedly snapped away with my camera as men and women gracefully accepted their prizes in traditional dress. The rugged fellow who sold me the apples won first place in his category while a group of teenage boys won prizes for a combine harvester that they had made of out hay. The day was topped off with performances by various groups of children singing and dancing. From the desperately inappropriate techno dance routine to a song called ‘Lick My Ass’ by a group of village girls, to a gutsy rendition of traditional old Polish songs by a scruffy old farmer in a top hat.

I never saw Mr Nowak again but I will be sure not to forget his enthusiasm and his peculiar methods of language instruction. My interview with him was indeed fascinating although the most extraordinary thing was his comment about war, which was left hanging like a cat from a branch. There could have been some truth in his comment, for if more people were able to speak foreign languages; perhaps there would be more understanding amongst people across different cultures. So much so that events such as this; without masses of security, armed police or bomb squads, may not be just confined to small Polish towns, but celebrated everywhere with respect, understanding and a magnificent selection of ‘fruit and veg’.

1.) A large peasant or farmer